


My body belongs to me

by hamjay



Category: Batman - All Media Types, Red Hood and the Outlaws (Comics), Red Hood: Lost Days
Genre: All Caste (DCU), All Caste Jason Todd, Family Bonding, Father-Son Relationship, Gen, Martial Arts, No Beta, Scars, Tattoos, Training
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-02
Updated: 2020-11-02
Packaged: 2021-03-09 02:14:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,843
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27343348
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hamjay/pseuds/hamjay
Summary: A character study of Jason turns into father + son bonding.
Relationships: Jason Todd & Bruce Wayne
Comments: 6
Kudos: 151





	My body belongs to me

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this to explore some headcanons about Jason's body, and what it might be like if he had a few tattoos.
> 
> I'm playing fast and loose with canon.
> 
> There's very little to go off of in the comics about what exactly the All Caste teach Jason, so that's where a lot of the looseness comes from.

Bruce is still not accustomed to looking  _ straight _ at Jason, rather than  _ down _ . He's not used to the weight of Jason's hand on his arm, never thought he'd feel it there. Or Jason's elbow for that matter, propped on his shoulder while his son leans right into him at the computer banks, reading the files along with him. 

Jason's full grown and Bruce didn't see it happen. So he's getting used to it. The strength of a well placed blow truly jostles him and Jason's kicks can send a smaller man flying. For the first time in a long time Bruce finds himself  _ learning _ when they spar together. Jason is deadly, he's even smarter and faster than he'd been as a boy, and combined with his new strength and body, the hairs on Bruce's neck still raise when they go toe to toe. 

This grown man might be a novelty to Bruce, but the body isn't new to Jason. Jason's had it for four years now. He grew into it, built it, and knows it well. Jason knows his exact reach, knows his balance and core, and rivals Dick in proprioception. So the body is only new to Bruce, who remembers tossing teenaged Jason around on the training mats, who remembers how easy it was to scruff him, or to carry him off to bed when Jason fell asleep on his homework. 

But Bruce figures out, slowly, how they fit together. When Jason leans on him after a tough mission Bruce knows to square up his feet and muster some extra strength to take the load. He doesn't reach down to ruffle Jason's hair when he feels affectionate. Instead, he bends at the elbow and  _ lifts _ his palm and warmly pats Jason's back between the shoulder blades. 

Jason wears exactly what he feels comfortable in. Bruce and Alfred don’t make him new gear pieces but only offer the materials. He’s learned a lot without them, it’s  _ very _ clear, and so it’s really best to just give Jason the kevlar, the Nomex, the insulation, the suit regulators, and tools, and let him do with it what he sees fit. Jason’s armor itself is so unlike their own in appearance, the only thing that he really cares to style is the Red helm. But any embellishments beyond that are likely made when Jason’s feeling idle. With him it’s function over form and it’s never half assed. 

Jason keeps his skin covered, keeps the helmet  _ on _ until he’s certain he’s safe, doesn’t expose an inch of himself to avoidable harm, Bruce can tell it from a mile away.

The helmet keeps Jason’s head from any undue trauma. With suspicions about just what kind of state Jason’s skull is in, Bruce grows to prefer it for him, even if it’s origin is disturbing at times. 

As for Jason’s skin, it’s best he saves his hide. Bruce himself is strapped with ribbons of scars and in the early days he can’t help but  _ wonder _ what in the world Jason’s hiding from them. Because he is hiding it, keeps it to himself, beneath long sleeves and leggings, beneath turtle neck shirts and pants, scarves in the winter and a breezy white collared button down in the summer. 

Some of it’s his fault, Bruce reminds himself. He  _ knows _ there’s a scar on Jason’s throat. Others are Bruce’s fault by association.

Bruce can only wonder at it, could never  _ ask _ , not until Jason’s comfortable.

A few of Bruce’s questions are answered on a night after a rough patrol, early on when Jason hasn’t yet stocked some personal effects at the cave. Jason is soaking wet and disgusting from a dip in the harbor at the tail end of a power plant water waste pipe. 

“That car ride was about ten minutes longer than I would have liked,” Damian laments, holding his nose plugged, while he and Jason and Bruce get out of the Batmobile. “Todd will need to burn his armor after that swim.” Damian all but runs to the locker rooms to get a shower in ahead of Jason who will be using that particular facility again for the first time in years. He’d relented to Bruce’s insistence that he use their decontamination showers at the cave.

Jason just rolls his eyes and shuffles in his squelching boots after the boy. “Don’t use all the hot water, twerp.” Alfred is coming up beside him with a cart and politely holding a white gloved hand over his nose. 

“Before you track too much of that filthy water into the locker room, may I take your jacket and utility pants, master Jason?” he suggests. 

“Sorry Alfred, I’ll help you clean up the shower after,” Jason says. He pauses so he can strip off the soaking jacket that is thoroughly marinated in the dirty water. He thinks he should be more peeved than he is, but definitely just feels bad that Alfred’s going to clean his armor in this condition. 

“I appreciate the offer, young man. However I’m most certainly blessed that the decontamination shower has a self cleaning application for such circumstances.” Jason struggles more with the clinging utility pants and boots, but manages to wrestle the articles off and sets them on the cart with his jacket. “Though it was created with the cleaning of toxic chemicals in mind...I’m certainly glad we can use it for times like these.”

“Me too,” Jason agrees. He’s been looking forward to such a shower ever since he surfaced from the filthy water. All he’d had to do was reach up and Bruce had been there, grabbing him by the wrist. Jason remembers the way Batman had grunted while dragging his heavy son out of the water and onto the boat.

Bruce walks past and to the computer banks, no doubt to review their work that night, and Jason leaves to finish undressing in the locker room. Once there he peels his armored shirt off, then in his under layers of compression leggings and shirt, walks into the shower, separated from the others, and closes the door behind him. 

“Alright, nuke me,” he says as he turns on the water that has neutralizing agents in it. Once he feels even mildly rinsed he takes off the rest of his clothes. For the next twenty minutes Jason feels like he’s in a car wash. A very powerful car wash that’s trying to destroy any and all contaminate bodies in the stall with him. The water is nearly scalding, and that combined with the water pressure leaves his skin red and exfoliated. He keeps one hand on the tiled wall at all times to keep steady under the barrage.

“At least I’ll be baby smooth,” he grunts, giving a final turn in the spray then shuts it all off. Jason leaves his clothes in a puddle and paws for the towel and bathrobe on the wall outside of the stall. 

The steam in the bathroom is intense. He’s careful not to slip as he makes his way out, looking very much like a hosed down dog, hair flattened and clinging to his head. Jason takes a seat in the locker room, the bathrobe tucked around him. He’s tired, but comfortable here. The cave has everything he could need, and what he’d needed was a good cleaning. 

Jason’s toweling off his hair when he hears Alfred at the entryway, just around the corner. “Master Jason, I have clean clothes for you,” he announces.

“You can come in,” Jason says loud enough for him to hear. 

The older man walks in, the clean clothes folded and held in one hand, and a pair of comfortable looking sneakers pinched in the other. “If you’ll stay the night, your armor will be clean and dry and assembled by the afternoon,” Alfred informs him, coming over to the bench Jason’s sitting on. 

Then Alfred pauses, staring at Jason’s hands that are up in his hair, patting his dark curls with the towel. “Master Jason, forgive my curiosity, but when and where in the world did you receive such unique tattoos?” he asks and then puts the folded clothes on the bench next to Jason, the shoes on the floor below them, and steps back.

“Hm?” Jason brings his hands down to look at his exposed forearms. The sleeves of the bathrobe are looser than any of the shirts he wears, and with his arms raised they had slipped down and exposed the black ink on both of his arms. He hasn’t told them about this yet. There’s a lot he hasn’t told them, and they don’t ask too many questions, still afraid to scare him off. 

But Jason knows that Alfred only asks because he wants to know Jason and the man he is  _ now _ . He can hear it in the old man’s voice. Jason holds his sleeves out of the way so that the black script and images remain visible as he talks.

“These were given to me when I completed certain rites of passage.” Jason debates on a held breath then decides that  _ yes _ he wants to share this part of himself. He’s proud of it, honored by it.

Jason shifts on the bench, swinging his legs to the other side so that Alfred is behind him. His back is where the rest of the tattoos live. With the middle of the bathrobe still tied secure around his waist, Jason shrugs his shoulders out of it, letting the weight of it fall down his arms to settle in the middle of his back. The script and images are intricate, made with a skilled and practiced hand. They originate at the base of Jason’s neck and run out along the lines of his shoulders. Script cascades down Jason’s spine, sacred geometry whorls around the cut of shoulder blades. The design is balanced but not entirely symmetrical. Scars of all shapes and sizes disturb the ink, telling the story of hard years endured since he received the tattoos. 

Alfred’s still quiet but Jason can see from the corner of his eye that the old butler is more thoughtful than anything else, scanning the images. “I trained a lot, with many people, many places…” Alfred  _ sighs _ because Jason is still so vague about these last several years, choosing his words carefully so as not to reveal something he isn’t ready to share. “But none of them  _ helped _ me like these monks did. If they call on me, I know I’d go to them without question.” Jason shrugs the robe up again and tugs the folds closed over his chest, carefully ensuring their security, and turns to Alfred.

Jason flinches when he sees Damian peering from around the corner, wide eyed. Alfred turns to look at what has disturbed him.

“Hey twerp, you mind knocking next time?” he growls and when Damian scampers out of sight Jason doesn't follow only because he still needs to get dressed. He starts to unfold the clothes, grumbling to himself about  _ little brothers _ he never asked for.

There’s sweatpants, underwear and socks, a short sleeve shirt, and a hoodie.

“I will come back with a long sleeve shirt, my apologies,” Alfred says suddenly, making to depart and give Jason privacy. The old man is understanding something new about Jason’s inclination toward modest clothing. He and Bruce feared that only horrors hid beneath the threads, never considering that Jason’s skin might be marked by honor and merit, as well.

Jason just smiles, albeit, a little awkwardly. “Thanks Al...but this is okay. I think I should be fine with this.” It was considerate, and Jason doesn’t mind. 

Once he’s alone, Jason starts to dress. He’s tired and lets the feeling of good old cotton slipping through his fingers soothe any edges left from patrol. The clothes are most certainly Dick’s spares, but Jason doesn’t mind or think twice about it. He’s lived in second hand clothes his whole life, and prefers it. Sneaking into Dick’s abandoned room at eleven years old, and stealing the clothes his big brother had left behind for college was a regular activity. The shirts hadn’t fit great, but Jason slept better in those big soft worn tees than he ever did in the fitting freshly bought ones Alfred handed him when he first moved in. 

Jason tugs the socks over aching feet. Works the boxers up under the bathrobe, then the sweatpants to cover the stripes of scars on his calves, the scraped knees, the bullet wound on his right thigh that hides beneath a large maze of ink and color. The tattoo here is an amalgamation of shapes. A lacie legged spider clings to the underside of a city skyline, a deathly beautiful woman, in a black robe with a scythe, says ‘ _ get angry _ ’. A skull is raised by a disembodied hand. The insides of Jason’s thighs are significantly less scarred and marked by his trials.

Jason shoots a glance at the locker room entrance before untying and sliding out of the bathrobe. He tugs the dark green T-shirt on with a quick snap and smooths his palms down the front. He shoves his feet into the sneakers and grabs up the sweatshirt, but doesn’t put it on yet, and shuffles out into the cave proper. 

Damian’s at the computer banks with Bruce as Jason joins them. He knows Damian’s seen the tattoos so there is no need to keep them to himself, but Jason does get a little satisfaction when their dad gives him a solid triple take. It’s more of his skin than Bruce has seen in years. Jason’s neck is on full display, the scar on his throat shines silver in the light of the monitors. The ink on his forearms somehow looks darker than black. 

Before Bruce can say a word, likely about to put his foot in his mouth, Damian demands “ _ where _ did you get those tattoos?” He sounds suspicious and, considering it was Talia who introduced Jason to the All Caste, the symbols may look abstractly familiar to her son. Damian gets uncomfortable when he doesn’t have the whole picture, and dislikes secrets even more.

Jason’s naked comfort can only last so long and he starts unfolding the sweatshirt as he talks. It’s easier to explain to Damian, while Bruce listens, instead of to his father’s face directly. 

“There are warrior monks in the Himalayas who graciously trained my stubborn ass a few years ago,” he explains. The sweatshirt is ready to pull on but he pauses and turns his back to Damian and, subsequently, Bruce. Reaching behind him Jason lifts the hem of his shirt up his low back to reveal the edges of matching patterns there. “These back here are from some trials I completed.” Jason drops the hem and pulls the sweatshirt on over his head. He shucks up one sleeve and bares his forearm, reaching out for his brother to take a closer look. “And these are for the wielding of sacred weapons.” The All Blades he hasn’t shown them.

Damian holds Jason’s elbow in one hand and his wrist in the other and turns the appendage slowly. Jason likes the way Damian takes one finger and runs it along the entangled forms as if he could spread them thin and dissect each line. “These are...familiar,” he mumbles. “But I can’t read this script.”

“Not surprised. It’s an ancient order, but not unknown to the League. I can read them, but I’m a novice.” Damian lets go but doesn’t look away. Jason glances at Bruce who is leaning far over in his chair, holding the arm for stability, to get a better look around his youngest son. The cowl is down and loose around his neck, his expression open and intensely curious. Jason turns to him fully and holds the arm out like he’s reaching for his dad. “Do you want to see?”

Bruce blinks and straightens like he’s been caught at something he promised not to do. Like he’d been  _ so good _ . 

Jason snorts. “It’s okay.” He steps closer until it’s impossible that Bruce can’t look at his arm because it’s right in front of him. Bruce floats his hand under Jason’s wrist but doesn’t touch. 

Bruce doesn’t know what he’s meant to look for. His detective mind tells him all he needs to know, what region these are from, what purpose they serve. But it’s not the content of the ink that is important to him.

A hand rests heavy on his shoulder and maybe Bruce could feel the warmth of Jason’s palm if he weren’t wearing the armor right now. The touch is like permission and Bruce finally lets his ungloved hand cradle Jason’s wrist. He feels like he’s holding the hilt of a weapon, one he’s never seen or used before. It’s potential is completely unknowable to him, Bruce is unskilled in it’s range and forms, and doesn’t know where the cutting edge starts, doesn’t know what angle to hold it for the perfect arch. Bruce doesn’t know how to treat it; does it need sharpening or honing? Does it need to be seasoned or is it better left alone? 

Bruce brings his other hand over and clasps it with Jason’s, holding firmly. When he looks up at his son he smiles, a soft and hopeful thing, and pats their joined hands paternally. “You must be honored,” he says.

Jason lifts his brows and squeezes back. “Yeah. I am.” 

There were times in Bruce’s own travels when marks similar to these were offered to him. He disinclined himself from the practice of marking his skin with ink or pigment. No identifying marks, he’d told himself. An illusion of security, he realizes now, thinking about the scar mottled skin he wears. Bruce had also thought that, if his spirit was strong enough, these marks of merit were only superficial. 

Bruce thinks he might have been wrong now that he sees them on his son.

But the few honors Bruce was awarded come to mind. “Are you part of the lineage?” Bruce wonders but Jason shakes his head. 

Jason leans back and they let go of each other. With a shake of his hand the sleeve wiggles down to his wrist. He settles in, half sitting on the console and folding his arms over his chest. “No. I’m a novice. A little like...a knight.” Jason flicks his bangs out of his eyes. “Maybe if the monks ever return I’ll go back and complete my training. I certainly haven’t mastered the martial art, and the philosophy is a work in progress.” 

“If your training is so incomplete then why were you awarded those tattoos?” Damian asks. Jason almost forgot his brother was there. 

“You collect them as you pass trials or complete parts of your training. If I’m still a novice, imagine how my elders and masters were decorated,” he points out. “If I’d never trained in the sacred weapons then I wouldn’t have earned these on my arms, which I need so I can wield them.” Bruce is increasingly curious about these weapons Jason has never shown them. “They help me gather the fortitude to use them.” 

Sensing that Damian is just as curious, but not quite as restrained, Bruce cuts in before his son can demand to see these weapons. “I think it’s time for bed.”

Damian rolls his eyes and automatically stifles a yawn behind his fist as if Bruce has said some words of a magic sleeping spell. “Whatever. I look forward to sparring against you and these  _ weapons _ soon, Todd.” With that he shuffles off. 

Jason stretches his arms over his head and rolls his neck. “I may not be a master who can  _ teach _ but I can show you some of the forms,” he offers Bruce. Jason tugs the hem of the sweatshirt down from where it had risen up as he stretched. “Maybe training tomorrow?” It feels  _ good _ to have something in his arsenal that Bruce isn’t familiar with yet, since he’s a man of many trades. But Jason also thinks Bruce will genuinely like the forms Jason learned during his time with the All Caste. 

He doesn’t wait for a response, only pats the back of the chair as he walks by and follows Damian upstairs.

At twelve years old Jason sweats and his thighs burn from holding horse stance. His arms move in rote, one side and then the other, then the first again. One hand punches, then his fist swings by the rotation of his elbow and shoulder in every direction. Then he repeats the pattern with an open palm, wielding the outer side like a knife edge cutting the air. Left arm then right arm and then left again. Only once he does fifty rounds of this is he allowed to come out of his deep squat. Bruce is right beside him and they move in unison. 

When he’s seventeen Ducra doesn’t let him rise from horse stance for what seems like hours. He spends days crouched low and sliding through forms with her watchful eyes on him. Jason wonders if he’ll ever be able to stand on straight legs again.

At first he fools himself into thinking Ducra’s making him train this hard, so hard that Jason wishes for a time long ago when only fifty rounds of arm drills seemed like the toughest exercise he’d ever known. The truth is that it’s all his doing. The forms just feel  _ right _ . Jason couldn’t stop making these shapes with his body if he were begged to.

When Jason shows Bruce his forms on the training floor the next day, he does it because he wants someone to appreciate the shapes with him. He thinks of Ducra, of his other masters, and _misses_ them. 

The way Bruce says "show me what you've learned, Jay-lad," is warm enough to sooth that melancholy away.

Jason steps away to give himself room to move. He sinks into his horse stance and inhales and begins. Bruce recognizes right away the theme that bleeds from this art into everything Jason does. A motif of intrinsic alignment and strength unfolds from Jason and out into the space and dimensions of the training floor. 

He stays relatively low to the ground, which makes any rise seem as if he’s defying gravity. A lightness fills Jason every time it happens, like he really could float up and off of the floor. But he has to return eventually to the squat and the burn in his thighs. He repeats each form slowly so that Bruce can have a go at it beside him.

Bruce is thrilled to have someone teach _him_ for once. Something about an old dog and new tricks. It's even better that Jason is the one he gets to learn from and to touch the lighter shades of his wayward son. Jason's not within his grasp, but to see him so at peace is like holding his hand palm up in a warm sun ray.

**Author's Note:**

> The tattoo on Jason's thigh of a woman with a scythe is a depiction of a character from Terry Pratchett's Discworld. She is Susan, granddaughter of Death, and a badass. She says "don't get scared, get angry"


End file.
